Three Times Michael Almost Shot Fiona
by Petunia846
Summary: Based on an exchange from the extended Pilot..."You know, one of these days I'm gonna shoot you by accident." "Oh, you might shoot me one of these days, but it won't be by accident."
1. The First Time

**Three Times Michael Almost Shot Fiona...And One Time He Did**

My inspiration for this story came from a scene in the extended version of the pilot. There's a line that has always intrigued me. In one of the extra scenes, Michael is testing his homemade cell phone bug on the roof of the loft when Fiona sneaks up on him and demands he take her to dinner. When he realizes someone is there he almost points a gun at her. She tells him smugly, _"It's good to know I can still sneak up on you."_ He's annoyed and replies,_ "You know, one of these days I'm gonna shoot you by accident."_ She's still amused and says, _"Oh, you might shoot me one of these days, but it won't be by accident."_

So here we have it…three times Michael almost shot Fiona and one time he actually did…

**The First Time:**

"There she is!" the asset cried as he shook Michael's shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other.

Michael scrunched his face and tried to contain his sudden desire to smack the man across the face. "Would you be quiet!" he muttered and grabbed the man's pointing hand. "Do you _want_ her to kill you?" Tourists milled around the busy New York City café and Michael hoped none of them noticed the man's odd behavior.

Across the table, Michael's partner leaned over in his seat. He used the zoom lens on his camera to get a closer look at the woman in question. "Well," he whistled under his breath, "She's almost too hot to shoot."

The asset glared at him. "How can you say that? She's a terrorist! She blew up my brother's shop in Belfast five years ago."

Michael did the math in his head and groaned. He grabbed the camera and took a look at the woman in question, sitting out on her third floor balcony enjoying an afternoon tea. They'd been tracking her ever since she'd sold guns to a Spanish separatist group in Morocco…following flight plans across northern Africa and around Europe, watching her bank statements and credit cards, and finally tracking her down at a hotel in Manhattan, but this was the first time they'd actually laid eyes on her.

He should have known.

Her hair was shorter now than when he last knew her. She blew the steam off the tea daintily but then gulped it down like an ill-mannered child. He had to fight hard to keep the smile off his face. He'd always loved how incongruous her personality could be.

"Westen," his partner grumbled. "Don't stare."

He snapped a few pictures then lowered the camera again.

Her hotel room was nice. A bit too Old World for her tastes, but she wasn't paying for it. The balcony was the best part. The hustle and bustle of the city made her feel more alive than she had in years. The brisk air reminded her of home more than the searing heat of the desert and all the noise helped her block out thoughts of people and places she needed to leave behind. New York, she thought to herself, might not be such a bad place to settle down and stay awhile.

They found some empty office space across the street and a few stories above Fiona's room. Their directives from the CIA had been clear: Take her out. It was not a mission they had officially sanctioned. The CIA didn't officially sanction any projects on US soil and certainly not to kill foreign nationals, but that's why there were people like Michael Westen in the world…or not in the world, as the official line may be.

Of the two men, Michael was the better shot. He took his time setting up the sniper rifle he was most fond of using. His partner was in the lobby of the hotel where she was staying. At any moment, Michael knew, he would call to inform him that she was back from whatever errand she was running.

He considered his options. There was no way he could kill her. While she had started as no more than an asset back in Ireland, there was a reason why her name was still in his wallet. His only option, he decided, was to arrange a miss.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the hotel.

She returned from apartment hunting and flopped down on the bed. Her new heels were clearly not broken in yet, so she kicked them off and stretched lazily.

A knock on the door startled her awake a few minutes later.

"Room service," a voice called through the door.

Her senses went on high alert. She had not made any room service requests. The peephole showed only a waiter with a covered tray. With a hand on the gun in her waistband, she carefully unlocked the door.

"Hi," she greeted the man casually.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am." She watched him with a steady gaze as he set the tray down on the table and walked back out.

The covered tray displayed no obvious signs of being booby-trapped or otherwise dangerous. Still, she wrapped her arm in a towel and turned her face away as she lifted the lid. Underneath she found merely the standard, hotel tea service, the same one she'd been ordering every afternoon.

'Maybe they just expect I'd like tea today since I've ordered it every afternoon,' she thought.

Upon closer inspection however, she noticed that they had not delivered milk or sugar, but rather honey. The only person she knew who took honey in their tea was…

Her heart started to race.

The only person she knew who took honey in their tea was an American…an American spy.

Her mind joined her heart and started to race through the possible meaning of this delivery. She hadn't learned he liked honey in his tea until a job they did in Berlin. Her thoughts drifted to that adventure, and she suddenly knew what he was trying to tell her.

His phone rang just a moment after he hung up with the hotel's kitchen.

"She's back," his partner told him. "You ready?"

"All set," Michael answered curtly.

"I'm going to head back across the street and watch. Call if you need anything."

Michael's answer was little more than a grunt. Despite his training, his heart was racing. If anything appeared to be amiss on his end, there would be an investigation. There would be an investigation and eventually someone would discover the connection between the two of them. Then he would be benched and someone with no mercy would take his place. She'd be dead within a month. It had to be an accident. It couldn't be his fault.

He checked his scope. The dark curtains blocked his view. He waited, trying to control his nervous energy. If she didn't understand…if she didn't remember…

His finger sat on the trigger, patiently waiting. Finally the curtains were pulled back. The door to the balcony slid open and suddenly she was there, holding the cup and saucer in her hands.

She lifted a foot to take a step outside and he pulled the trigger.

Her foot fell awkwardly and she stumbled forwards, dropping the cup. She ended up on the ground just as the bullet flew over her head and lodged in the doorframe.

He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes in relief. He peered through the scope again and saw her smile up in his general direction, following the trajectory of the bullet. His phone was ringing, but he couldn't help but smile to himself. She scurried back inside as he bounced a few more bullets off the wall of the building for good measure.

"Get out! We're blown," his partner yelled opening the door. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Come on, let's go!"

The report that came out later said it was an accident. It was too dangerous, the agency decided, to continue to track her.

It would be years before he saw her again.


	2. The Second Time

**The Second Time:**

No matter how much he tried to sit still, the room still continued to spin around him. He laid his head back against the cushion of his favorite green chair and closed his eyes.

"Damn it, Michael," she screamed. "If you don't want my help, I guess I give up."

He tried to follow her as she streamed from the kitchen to the door. She moved so fast her hair turned to ribbons behind her as his vision blurred.

"I'm going home," she turned to tell him before opening the door. "If you ever decide you need something you can call Sam." She slammed the door behind herself for effect and he gripped the arms of the chair to keep from being sick.

He knew he shouldn't be so stubborn, but he didn't want her to get the wrong idea. She'd already been down here in Miami too long, and it's not like he was hoping to stick around. Still, he admitted to himself, he really should have let her get him some pain medicine.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself slowly out of the chair. He leaned heavily against the arm of that chair, and then the next one as he tried to make his way over to the bed. The concussion was one thing, but he was going to be so sore in the morning. It wasn't something spies had to deal with on a regular basis, but with car chases came the occasional car accident, and he'd always hated the day after one.

He cursed his own legs as they failed to hold him up. Luckily his bed was not far from the ground. He bit his tongue to control the nausea and rolled himself onto the middle of the mattress. Finally able to lie still, he tried to relax. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed as they started to water. Not tears. He would never admit to tears…just watery eyes from all the movement.

A few deep breaths and he tried to get to sleep.

Her foot was a brick and she pushed her car to almost its top speed. He was so infuriating! He was clearly hurting and yet he refused any kind of assistance from her. She almost thought he had some kind of death wish now, after his burn notice.

She drove around for a while, watched the sunset, and then cruised down Collins Avenue to feel the ocean breeze. As much as she tried she couldn't stop picturing him there in his apartment dying of some kind of brain bleed because no one was watching him. With a heavy, dramatic sigh she turned her car back towards the loft.

He might not want her help, but with God as her witness he was not going to die on her watch.

He wasn't positive, but he must have slept because day turned to night in the blink of an eye. He remembered waking up once. Bright lights chased him, but he pushed them away. Another time he was in the car again…so fast…it stopped abruptly and he barely manage to lean over the side of the bed before his stomach started heaving.

The next time he awoke it was to a banging metal sound crashing outside. He opened his eyes to find two of everything and closed them again promptly.

"Who's there?" he mumbled, fumbling for the weapon under his pillow.

The door opened with no answer and he struggled to shoot straight, aiming wildly and hitting the wall in a few places.

"Michael!" Fiona cried and he lowered the gun. "You almost shot me." Her voice displayed a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

"Fi…I…"

"Hey," her voice was softer now. "Lie down. You may be a stubborn son of a bitch but I'm going to stay here with you tonight whether you like it or not."

"You came back," he mumbled, feeling drowsy again.

"I did," she smoothed the hair off his forehead. "And you tried to kill me."

"Sorry," he smiled with his eyes closed. "It was an accident."


	3. The Third Time

**The Third Time: **

"Absolutely," Fiona told her client. "It won't be a problem. I'll have it delivered to you by tomorrow."

"Oh, Miss Glenanne, thank you so much. Your efforts will most definitely be rewarded."

"I don't doubt it," she smiled.

"Yes, I'll take care of it," Michael told his new handler. "I'll make sure the shipment moves through Miami without incident." He looked across the table as he ended the call. "Sam, you wanna help with a job?"

"Sure, but where's Fiona?"

He shrugged. "Said she was going on some kind of retreat in the Keys with some girlfriends."

Sam almost dropped his fork. "Wait…Fi has girlfriends?"

Fiona sat in her car, parked in an alley down the street, and twisted her hair up into a bun. She checked her equipment then pulled the ski mask over her head. The night was quiet as she snuck up to the government warehouse. Hiding behind a dumpster, she pulled out the laser device Michael had put together a few years ago and pointed it at the first security camera she spotted. Within a few seconds a little light was blinking to indicate a malfunction.

The van Sam rented was parked down the block. Michael watched the feeds from four security cameras on a laptop in the back. They were taking turns embellishing old war stories to make it through a long boring night of surveillance.

"And so that's why I had to march into the embassy the next morning with nothing more than my cummerbund and my boxers on."

"Nice," Michael smirked. Before he could start his own story, one of the cameras went black. "Sam, did you see that?"

"Not good, Mikey. You wanna check it out?"

"Yeah," he hooked his Bluetooth behind his ear. "You stay here and watch the other monitors for me."

With the coast clear, she taped the det cord to the wall swiftly with nimble fingers. She ducked behind the dumpster again and hit the button.

The blast was beautiful, and she was climbing through the new warehouse entrance before the dust had even settled.

Michael heard the explosion and picked up his pace. "What was that, Sam?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Sam told him. "Nothing showed up on the other cameras."

As he reached the wall, Michael spotted the destruction. "Someone's breaking in."

"Watch out, Mikey. Keep your eyes open."

"I will," he grumbled as he stepped through the opening and into the warehouse. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness inside, away from the streetlights. He pressed his back against the wall and surveyed the scene.

It took her a few minutes to find the crate with the correct number, but when she did, a crowbar to the lid was all it took to liberate the device inside. She tucked it securely in her backpack and prepared to make her exit. 

Michael heard the nails pull free of the wooden crate, heard someone rummaging through the packing material, and then, a moment later, the zip as a bag was closed. He secured his stance, cocked his gun, and waited for the thief to emerge.

There were no footsteps but a small, shadowy figure soon burst from around the edge of an aisle of crates.

"Stop right there!" he yelled, firing a shot into the cement floor as a warning.

The thief froze and looked at him, then took a step closer, trying to see through the darkness.

"Stop!" He raised his gun again, ready to fire. "This is a government facility. You're stealing United States property, that's a federal offense."

The figure complied, but Michael could almost swear that they smiled.

"Michael?" the figure laughed, and he nearly dropped his gun.

"Fiona?" He steadied his weapon again until he could be sure.

"You shot at me," she mused and pulled the mask off her head.

He threw his head back in disbelief. "Damn it, Fi! What the hell are you doing?"

She walked over to him slowly, hands raised in mock surrender, an exaggerated swagger in her hips. "I'm doing my job. What are _you_ doing?"

"_My_ job!"

She pressed herself against him. "Oops," she whispered.

He leaned down to kiss her and snatched the backpack off her shoulder in the process. "You could've been hurt. I almost shot you," he chastised.

She grinned. "Almost."


	4. The Last Time

**The Last Time:**

The job had seemed easy…right up until it went terribly, terribly wrong. Fiona got a text in the middle of their meeting with a photo of the babysitter in a pool of blood while their two-year-old son looked on from his playpen.

They raced. They called Sam but he was out of town. He raced back anyway. They called Maddie. She was on her way immediately, but she was twice as far away as they were. They called Barry and Seymour and even some friends at the police department. Still they raced, flying through traffic in Michael's tank of a car.

Their little cottage in the Florida backwoods was supposed to keep them safe. It was supposed to keep them hidden, out of sight, off the grid…but now the endless, winding driveway was excruciating.

Fiona fidgeted and unconsciously pressed her foot on an imaginary gas pedal…even though it was Michael doing the driving.

They rounded yet another curve as the car shook and a ball of flames appeared above the tree lines. They gripped the car doors and looked at each other.

"Oh God," Fiona cried.

Michael stepped on the gas but it wasn't enough for her. Before he knew it she was fumbling with the door.

"Fiona!"

She stumbled out of the car, sprinted around the back and cut through the woods on foot. Michael revved the engine and cut her off at the next curve as the road opened up to their broad, green lawn. Flames were bursting out where windows used to be.

"Fi! Fiona! Stop!" he yelled at her as he struggled to put the car in park and leap out after her.

She stopped and turned to him. "No, Michael! I can still get him!" She moved closer to the five foot wall surrounding the house.

"Fi stop!" His voice was cracking. "It's already too big. You'll never make it!"

"I have to try, Michael!" She fumbled for her keys to open the gate.

"Fi, no!" His voice was breaking. "I can't lose both of you!"

She realized her keys must still be in the car. She turned back to look at him. "Michael…I…" She didn't know what to say. She grabbed a hold of the iron gate and started to climb it.

"Damn it, Fi!" He sprinted across the yard and arrived at the gate just as she landed lightly on the other side. "Fiona stop!" he cried, but she wasn't listening. She stood up swiftly and headed for the burning house.

His mind clouded with desperation, he did the only thing he could think to do. He pulled out his gun, aimed, and shot straight through her shoulder. Her feet tangled beneath her and she fell to the grass.

He shoved his key in the lock, swung the gate open and ran to her. There were tears streaming down her face as she stared at him. He ripped off his shirt and pulled her back and against his chest as he pressed the shirt against her to stop the bleeding. Another explosion rocked the building and sent sparks flying in every direction. He pulled her around quickly and shielded her with his body. She shrieked in pain and her whole body shook with frustration and despair.

"Damn it, Michael," she screamed. "Damn it!" Her voice broke as she started coughing from the smoke.

They could hear sirens winding their way up the long, back road to their cottage. They stared at the giant inferno engulfing the life and the family they'd finally managed to cobble together.

Coughs still wracked her body and his eyes were burning too from smoke and tears. He lifted her carefully and carried her back to the car, away from the flames. He set her down in the backseat of the Charger and continued to hold her wounded shoulder.

"You shot me," she whispered, looking up at him.

"I did," he agreed, gravely.

"You shot me on purpose." Fire trucks and ambulances pulled up beside them.

He shut his eyes against the tears and kissed the top of her head. "Yes," he told her. "I shot you…but only because I couldn't stand to lose you."


End file.
